


Decaff

by qwertysweetea



Category: South Park
Genre: Aged-Up Character(s), Anxiety Disorder, Boyfriends, Caffeine Addiction, Caffeine Withdrawal, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff, Gen, High School, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, M/M, Mental Breakdown, References to Addiction, They're about 17/18yo
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-21
Updated: 2019-11-21
Packaged: 2021-02-25 20:35:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,200
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21511597
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/qwertysweetea/pseuds/qwertysweetea
Summary: Decaff coffee tastes awful but not as awful as the racing chaos of caffeine dependency on top of an anxiety disorder.AKA: Tweet switches to decaff and promptly has a breakdown over it. Craig steps in to calm him down a little.[Aged-up characters]
Relationships: Craig Tucker/Tweek Tweak
Comments: 1
Kudos: 131





	Decaff

**Author's Note:**

> Anything can push you over the edge when you're already hanging on by a thread; we just need to remember that baby steps are still steps and steps back don't invalidate steps forward.

He stood at the counter; heart in his throat, the air too thick to fill his lungs. It's too much pressure... too much, too much. It's always too much but this, this is so much worse than it ever has been before. And sure, he's said that so many times but this time he's convinced he means it that little bit more than he usually does.

It’s not that he's been insincere every other time. Tweek has never felt more sincere in his life. Water is wet; grass is green; his hair is blond; the world feels like it’s closing in on him, and this time it feels like it won’t stop.

The coffee tastes bitter and burnt, the way the glass jug rattles against his mug as he tries to pour it sends blots of anxious energy through his chest with every gentle clash of glass against porcelain – fight, freeze, run, freeze, run, fight, fight, run…

He slams the jug down onto the countertop and he’s spinning on his heels, pacing away, spinning, pacing back. Where is he going? Nowhere, he has nowhere to go. Exams start tomorrow and today he needs to study –

Cram, cram, cram.

He wants to go to college. Wants to be a success. Wants a place of his own. Wants a life. Wants to stop… needs to stop.

But he’s pacing again, eyes blindly baring into the floor, already exhausted, and his coffee still tastes bitter and burnt. It clings to the back of his throat. If he wasn’t so used to it, it would have made him wretch. All of this is so tiring; his eyes sting with it despite the five hours of sleep. Decaff tastes awful, it really does. Maybe it's worse because his body still jitters and the aching fatigue in his muscles means he feels every bit of it. Maybe it's worse because he doesn't, shouldn't have an excuse to still feel this bad...

‘You need to stop,’ it races around his head on a loop. ‘You need to stop; you need to stop; you nee-’

“Oh dear,” his mother muses, a gentle sigh in her voice as she lifts the coffee pot to her nose; it wrinkles in disgust. “I wish you wouldn’t put your new brand of coffee in our good machine.” She doesn’t sound angry, but she doesn’t sound happy either. Whenever they talk now it’s punctuated by that low, kindling disappointment.

It’s almost like he’s brought alcohol into their house, or drugs, or women. There’s that historical understanding that they’ll always love him but they don’t like him right now. The coffee leaves a nasty aftertaste in his mouth and he leaves one in his parents. 

They hadn't taken time to understand it; not really. The conversation about moving from regular to decaff had becoming heated and hard. He might as well have spit in their faces if the looks of betrayal were anything to go by. How would he cope without it? Did he think they didn't know what they were doing? What was he accusing them of, did he not trust them to have his interests at heart anymore? 'You had everything you ever wanted, your childhood was wonderful. You don't get to blame us for the way you turned out'.

‘But… you needed to stop,’ the voice morphs. It’s his own, and his therapists, every unhelpful adult in his life, his school friends, the nosy barista’s who know him a little too well.

‘Jesus, how old are you kid, 17? You’re not even outta school yet, how many coffees do you need?’; 'Christ dude, this isn't good for you! When was the last time you slept?'; 'No Tweek, it's not normal to feel your heart beating in your brain and knees at the same time.'

"I'm tired of feeling like this." He had said, legs crossed and head in his hands, elbows digging into his thighs. He trembled, and trembled, and trembled.

Craig had rocked into his knees and leaned over the textbooks between them, hand hovering in the air like he wasn't sure if anything he could say or do would help.

‘You need to stop. You need to stop. I need to stop. You need to stop. I need to stop. Stop. Stop. Stop.’

A sound that Craig can only compare to that of a distressed bird comes out of Tweek as he taps his shoulder to get his attention. His “hey babe” is drowned out by the strangled squawk. His “what’s wrong?” isn’t.

As he spins, he sloshes the coffee over the tiled floor and the front of his shirt. Craig’s face is far softer than his mum’s had been. It doesn’t look as disappointed as he expects it to be either. It never is. It’s no wonder than with Craig around it is a little easier to breathe, even if he doesn’t quite understand how.

“What’s wrong?” He asks again, the usual monotone of his voice touched with the concern that’s filled his face. When Tweet doesn’t reply beyond his erratic breathing, he takes his hand in his own, as natural as simply existing. “Tell me what you’re thinking.”

It’s like a sob, teeth chattering and hand twitching in the other’s grip. “It tastes so bad.”

“I know.” He soothes, “I know but you’re drinking it anyway, and I’m so proud of you. It’s got to be so hard on you, but you’re doing so well. See, you’re even trembling less than you did yesterday. How does that make you feel?”

Craig presses his shoulders hard between his hands, his grip is vicelike and restricting. It should feel overwhelming. Not Craig. Never Craig. He was the weighted blanket his parents were always recommended but made a point of never buying.

His breathing slows and the tears come. They always do. Again and again he’s struck by the realisation that if being up so high is so unbelievably horrific, then it is nothing compared to the feeling of coming down.

“It feels like I’ve been thrown out of a moving train. I’m flailing in mid-air. I’m helpless over where I’m going or how I’m going to land, and it tastes. So. Bad.”

“That’s horrible.” Craig defaults, swallowing back his own insecurities. Even after all this time he doesn’t know if what he’s saying is right. “You must feel like you have no control.”

Tweek nods, eyes drawn to the coffee stain down his front.

Craig’s eyes trace the path his boyfriends take. “You buttoned your shirt right today.” He observes, a smile kissing the corner of his lips.

“Yeah.” Tweek nods, his tears flick off his face as his frantic nods slow. They’re one hole too low, his collar is lopsided and awkward looking, but it’s closed completely for once.

And it might still hurt, his heart pulsing in his throat and the air too sticky to breathe, the taste in the back of his throat making him queasy, his mum's disappointed sigh… but it’s something.

Something more than yesterday.

Craig’s soft smile is still there; his press is still unrelenting on his arms. He leans his forehead onto Tweek's for a split second. “You must have some control.”


End file.
